


Rumourmongering

by emmaliza



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Begging, Crack, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, F/F, Fluff, Gags, Half-Sibling Incest, Loud Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Sibling Incest, TW for allusions to Joffrey, Teasing, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 08:29:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8198093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: Arya wonders why Robb has to get married now. She asks Sansa, who tells her, except then it turns out that Arya knew it better than her all along.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I kind of needed to de-stress from the depressathon 2k16 that is _they say he turns into a wolf at night_ , also I, like the rest of the universe, write nowhere near enough femslash, so I thought I'd write some fluffy cracky girl-on-girl in which Robb Stark is still getting a good dicking, but without having a goddamn breakdown this time.
> 
> This is my first time really properly writing either Arya or Sansa though, and it's in some weird alternate universe where they're older but all the character development-driving traumatic events from canon didn't happen, so if the characterisation's a little screwy... that's basically why. (In particular I feel like Sansa might be a little naive for eighteen, but she's still a highborn Westerosi maid, and you know, _Sansa_.)
> 
> For bonus points, you can imagine this takes place in the same verse as _Differences and Similarities_ , if only because they're the only two things I've written for this fandom which are the slightest bit happy.

“But why does Robb have to get married _now_?”

Sansa sighs. That is the third time Arya has asked her that question. Honestly, sometimes she acts so much younger than her sixteen years. She's not any happier about being forced to share a room like girls again than Arya is, but she's at least trying not to drive her sister to the brink of killing her like she used to when they were girls. Not that Arya seems to appreciate her efforts.  


“I don't know,” she says with a blush. Alright, lying like that is not necessarily something the Mother would approve of, but she is not having this conversation with Arya. She's not having this conversation with anyone; it's too stupid, and disgusting. Disgustingly stupid. Besides, like Arya hasn't heard the rumour somewhere else anyway. _Jon probably, if he started it._  


Sansa flinches. She feels a little guilty, suspecting her half-brother like that with so little evidence. But still, it's hard to think of who would have a better motive, and he's never liked Greyjoy...  


“If you don't know, how come you blush every time I ask?”  


Sansa frowns as she sits on the bed, just ready to climb under the covers and ignore her sister as best she can. “I do not,” she says, even though she does. But it's hardly fair of Arya to use that against her.  


“Yes you do.”  


“Do not.” Oh no, she is _above_ this sort of argument. “Just go to sleep, Arya.”

“I'm not tired.”  


“I don't care!”  


Arya just _laughs_ at how annoyed she's making Sansa, the little witch. “Really though, no-one will tell me,” she says. “I tried asking Jon and he just blushed and told me to mind my own business.”  


Sansa frowns. That doesn't sound like Jon. “Well, Jon's smart. Have you ever considered following his advice?”  


“Yes, and I do so, very often. But not now.” Arya suddenly takes on a surprisingly serious look. “This was all very sudden. I want to know why. I want to know what I should be looking out for before I'm suddenly forced into marrying someone I barely even know.”  


Sansa sighs. Despite herself, she can't help but pity Arya a little. She knows her sister has always dreaded her wedding day, and she never used to understand it (not until her brief, ill-fated engagement with Joffrey Baratheon) – but she does feel a little responsibility to let Arya be as prepared for her inevitable fate as possible.  


“It's just a stupid rumour,” she mutters, blush returning. “It's not true, it can't possibly be. But Father got word of it, and decided it was best put to rest. Robb's a little old to be unmarried anyway.”  


“ _What_ rumour?”  


Sansa blushes deeper. “A rumour, about Robb... and Theon Greyjoy.”  


Arya blinks.  


“Wait, Robb has to get married because he's fucking Theon? He's been fucking Theon for years!”  


“Arya!”  


Sansa is mortified, and Arya just laughs louder at her scandalised look. This conversation is so much worse than Sansa could have possibly imagined.  


“Robb is not – _laying with_ – Theon,” Sansa declares, very finally. Arya holds back her laughter, and looks very solemn.  


“No, no, of course not,” she says. Then she smirks. “Not three nights out of four at least. Three nights out of four, Theon's 'laying with' him!”  


Sansa can only _squeak_ her indignation. Gods, how can Arya say such things about their brother? Even if – even if Robb could debase himself to commit such unnatural acts, there's no way he'd ever be the – the – and of course, proud Theon Greyjoy, heir to the Iron Islands, never would. Therefore, how can it possibly be happening? Sansa would like to see any of the Maesters at the Citadel try to argue with that logic.  


Of course she's not arguing with a Maester from the Citadel, she's arguing with Arya. Which is much, much worse. “Honestly, the way you were carrying on I was afraid Robb had been caught with a sheep, or corpse, or sheep's corpse. But Theon? You and Father must be the last two people in the Seven Kingdoms who didn't know about Robb and Theon. Even _Mother_ knew.” She pauses. “You know, I think even Alys Karstark knows why her maidenhood is suddenly in such hot demand.”  


“You are obscene!” Sansa shrieks. “How can you say such things like – like it's – like it'd be _normal_ for–”  


“For what? For Robb to fuck – sorry, 'lay with' – Theon?” Arya asks. Sansa nods. Arya shrugs. “It is.”  


Sansa squeaks again.  


“It is not!”  


“Of course it is! Happens all the time!”  


“That doesn't make it normal!”  


“'Happens all the time' is the definition of normal!”  


“It's _disgusting_.”  


Arya suddenly stops, giving Sansa a very funny look. “What, you barely escaped a betrothal to Prince Joffrey with your head, but a little buggery between friends is disgusting?”  


Sansa flinches. She doesn't remember to take umbrage at the crude word, too struck by the memory of Joffrey and his horrible, horrible face. “...That wasn't fair,” she mutters.  


When she looks up she sees Arya chewing on her lip like she feels guilty. It's not as satisfying a sight as you'd think. “You're right. Sorry. I shouldn't have brought that up. Just...” Arya rolls on her side, looking Sansa deep in her eyes. Something tingles down Sansa's spine, but she won't give Arya the satisfaction of looking away. “If it was true – which it is, but if it wasn't, but if it was–”  


“Wait, what?”  


“Shut up, you know what I mean,” says Arya. “If it was true... would you tell Robb how disgusting you found him?”  


Sansa is dumbstruck. She doesn't have a good answer to that, and Arya does not let up.  


“Would you tell our brother – our wonderful, loving, smart, funny, brave brother – that he repelled you, just because he happened to take a man's cock up his arse?”  


She can't remember to protest Arya's vulgarity. “...I wouldn't put it like that,” she says, and the words taste hollow and bitter in her mouth.  


Arya raises an eyebrow. “So you'd let him know that was how you felt, you just wouldn't have the decency to say it to his face?”  


Sansa shakes her head. No, this conversation is not happening. Arya is not going to make her feel guilty that she's the one who knows unnatural acts are just that – unnatural. “Well it doesn't matter, does it?” she forces herself to snap. “Because it's _not true_.”  


And then she rolls over, shutting her eyes before Arya can say anything more. That's right, this talk is pointless. Arya is not going to make her feel bad about how she might or might not react to things Robb definitely didn't do. Arya's the one who thinks so little of him she thinks he actually _would_.  


Sansa wants to pretend to be asleep, like she always did as a child whenever she and Arya got themselves into an argument they couldn't get out of (which was often). But Arya, being Arya, can't just let it go, and Sansa feels her moving, coming closer, circling Sansa like a wolf after her kill. Gods, why is she so close? They're practically _cuddling_ now. They haven't done that in years.  


“I feel sorry for you,” Arya whispers, and Sansa, for some reason she cannot explain, shivers at the feel of her sister's breath on her neck. “You're so obsessed with the family you wish you had, you don't even know the one you actually do.”  


_Don't say anything. Pretend to be asleep. She's just trying to provoke you._ But Arya is just so warm behind her, it's hard to ignore. They don't look very much alike, for sisters, and Arya is built differently than Sansa – Sansa's tall and willowy, thin as a rake. Arya's shorter, stockier, firmer with more meat on her bones. Her breasts are bigger, although it makes Sansa blush to even think of such things.  


“ _I_ don't mind,” Arya carries on. “I love Robb. Whoever he likes to share his bed with. And if Theon Greyjoy loves him anywhere near as much as I do, so much the better – if they make each other happy, then who else's business is it what they get up to?”  


“...Alys Karstark might have a few things to say about it,” Sansa mumbles, but her heart's gone out of it.  


Arya takes a moment to think that over. “True. I feel a bit bad for her. But it's not like Robb has much of a choice,” she says. _Gods Arya, just go to sleep._ “Who knows, maybe he's not her type either. Maybe one of us will have to keep her company instead.”  


_What?!_ Sansa rolls back over, as outraged as she is confused. Her mouth hangs open, speechless, and Arya just raises an eyebrow.  


“What? Do you think girls don't do it too sometimes?”  


She splutters, helpless, and only more so because of the amused look in Arya's eyes. “No – I mean – _how_?”  


Well, at least she manages to make Arya look equally confused. “What do you mean, 'how'?”  


Sansa turns an even deeper red than she was before. Gods, why is she still having this conversation? “I mean – how would two girls – we don't have the parts!”  


Arya snorts. “You don't need a cock to fuck.”  


“Arya!”  


“Sorry. You don't need a _throbbing manhood_ to _make love_.” She only laughs louder at Sansa's complete mortification. Alright, Sansa's not that naïve, she has some idea of how buggery works – she's listened to Theon's various stories of depravity, even if she's pretended not to (and not one of them has mentioned her brother, or any other man, except for a couple of times Theon's mentioned sharing a woman with another man, which frankly just sounds confusing). She knows a man can do it to a woman, or a man to another man, but two women – no, that's not possible. Arya has clearly lost her mind. “What, don't you realise there are things you can do other than let a man stick his dick in you?”  


Sansa glares at Arya through her blush. “That's what making love is.”  


“Not necessarily! Making love can be all sorts of things!”  


“How would you know?!”  


Arya laughs at that. “Why, are you curious?”  


Sansa flushes deeper than she ever thought possible. Gods, it's like she's burning alive. She might be sick. “No I am not,” she says, a little too loudly. Suddenly she can't bear to look at Arya and her stupid horse face anymore (although Arya doesn't really look like a horse, not anymore; she's become rather beautiful as she's grown up, although she never dresses to show it off), and so she rolls back on her side and prays she'll sleep at all tonight.  


There's a long moment of silence, and Sansa convinces herself that Arya has finally given up, that they can now just go to bed and forget this whole stupid fight. She can feel Arya moving closer again, but she convinces herself Arya's just doing that in her sleep, cuddling on instinct like they always did when they were girls, no matter how they'd fought the night before and to their great embarrassment when they woke up in the morning and had to disentangle themselves. Arya's breath on her neck still makes her tense up horribly, but she tells herself to ignore it.  


“Really, there are so many things you can do,” Arya's voice comes again, and of course, Sansa should have known it was too good to be true. “With your mouth. With your hands. With your fingers. I mean, don't you ever touch yourself?”  


She bites her lip. No, not really – she's pinched her nipples a couple of times, felt a rush of pleasure when she did it, and maybe once or twice when half-asleep found the palm of her hand kneading at the front of her smallclothes. But she always stopped in a second, with a flush of shame. She is a lady of Winterfell, not some backstreet harlot – she shouldn't be finding pleasure like that except for with her lord husband. Besides, that's hardly the same thing as _making love._  


“Sansa, look at me.”  


She knows she shouldn't. She knows she's getting herself into trouble, trouble she doesn't even understand – and yet something about Arya's voice, low and stern and so much older than her sixteen years, is just impossible to resist. Slowly, Sansa rolls on her side, and looks into her little sister's Stark grey eyes. There is something dark in them, something wicked, wild, and terrifying. And beautiful. Sansa shivers.  


“Would you like me to show you?”  


Sansa blinks.  


“Wait, _what_ –”  


And then Arya's breath – no, not Arya's breath, Arya's _mouth_ – is on her neck.  


“Arya!” Sansa's hand goes immediately to Arya's dark hair to try and pull her away, try and stop her, but she's too shocked to be pulling anyone much of anywhere, so instead she just clings, trying to tether herself to the earth. Arya seems to take that as encouragement, and starts to _suck_ on Sansa's skin. _She'll leave a mark_ , Sansa thinks with a rush of terrror (and maybe excitement). “Arya, what are you doing?” she moans, trying to keep herself in reality.  


“Kissing you,” says Arya as she pulls away. “And a little bit more, if you'll let me.”  


Sansa groans as Arya's mouth returns to what it was previously doing. “It's wrong,” she mutters, but it sounds weak even to her.  


“Why? Because we're both girls?”  


“Because we're _sisters_.” Gods, she's meant to be the older sister, meant to stop Arya going astray and here she is letting Arya lead her astray, what will Mother think? But gods, that mouth feels so good...  


“Well yes, but if we're both girls, we can't possibly be making love, can we?” Arya asks, and Sansa frowns. “And if we can't be making love, we can't be committing incest either, can we?”  


Oh no, Arya is not allowed to use her own logic against her. Or maybe she is, because now Arya's teeth are in her neck and Sansa lets out a squeal of pleasure, she knows it should hurt but Arya's so good at it, soothes away the bruise with a soft tongue, and then her fingers are moving, hurriedly grabbing at the buttons of Sansa's nightdress.  


“Don't tear that!”  


Arya pauses, and frowns. “Why not? You own too many anyway.”  


“Yes, but I like this one.”  


Arya grins. “I like it too.” And then she _rips_ , buttons popping from Sansa's chest and flying everywhere. “I like tearing it off you.”  


Sansa gapes in indignant shock, and then blushes as she realises how very exposed she is. The silk falls easily from her bare breasts, and for a second she's worried Arya will think they're too small. From the look on her face however, that isn't what Arya's thinking. “Seven hells,” she mutters, seemingly not for Sansa's ears, but just because she can't help it. Gently, she raises one hand to cup the soft flesh. Sansa can't help but squirm. “You know, all those princes and lordlings who keep telling you you're the most beautiful woman in the world, they have a point.”  


She blushes. “Shut up.” With all her suitors, she just giggles demurely and accepts the compliment, and the fact it is, at best, an exaggeration. But hearing it from Arya's different. She knows Arya's not lying to her, and probably not exaggerating either. Arya really truly believes _she's_ the most beautiful woman in the world.  


Arya does, giving a little sigh. Then her patience breaks. She dives down and takes one of Sansa's nipples in her mouth, leaving Sansa to cry out: “Oh!”  


She's not gentle, running and rubbing over the little nub with her tongue and her teeth, and Sansa's whimpering but it feels so good, she finds her hands in Arya's hair again, not even pretending to be trying to stop her this time, just pulling her closer. “Oh gods,” she moans as she keens into that wet mouth, and Arya chuckles against her skin, the feeling running hot down Sansa's spine.  


“You're so sensitive,” Arya comments, switching to the other breast and giving the nipple there the same rough treatment. With her hand, she pinches the first one, feeling how red and wet and hard it is. Sansa can't see her face but somehow, she knows she's grinning. “I bet I could make you come like this, couldn't I?”  


Sansa gasps. “Arya–” She doesn't really know, she barely even knows what it means for a woman to come (she knows they don't spill like men, but she knows they do _something_ ), but she finds her legs spreading of their own volition.  


Arya chuckles at her. “Don't worry. Even if I could, I really want to get my hands on your cunt. Some other time.”  


Sansa would blush at that filthy word, but she's so red already it wouldn't make much difference. _We are not doing this again,_ she wants to say, but given how she feels right now it is very likely a lie. Arya's mouth returns to her nipples, making Sansa mewl and squirm with pleasure, but her spare hand is moving down, laying on Sansa's thigh, pushing her nightdress up higher, higher, too high Sansa won't be able to stop but she doesn't want to, she just raises her legs so the silk can fall to her waist...  


“Arya,” she chokes out, not because she needs Arya to do anything but because she just needs something to _say_ , and her sister's name is the best thing she has. Then, Arya's hand is at the front of her smallclothes, rubbing through soft pink cotton, and Sansa gives a choked cry more like a dying animal than a young lady. It's like what she did half-asleep to herself, but so much better, surer, firmer, and Arya does not stop, not even when Sansa flushes with more shame than she's ever felt in her life. _My own sister, gods I am going to every one of the seven hells, but it's so good–_  


“Do you like that?” Sansa nods, desperate, as if the bucking of her hips and her pathetic mewling noises don't give away how much she likes it. “You'd like it if I took your underthings off too, wouldn't you? You'd like it if I put my hand right against your cunt?”  


“Gods, Arya, the way you talk–” but then Arya lightens the pressure of her hand and Sansa's entire body tenses, thrusting herself up to try and get more. If they are still fighting, then Arya is undoubtedly winning. “Yes. I would,” she confesses, lip quivering with the shame of it.  


“Beg me to.” Arya grins like a cat with a mouse.  


“Arya–”  


“Beg.”  


Sansa whimpers. She wants it so much, even if she knows she shouldn't, and she thinks she'll go mad, or die, or probably both. “Please,” she chokes, afraid a tear might slip out. Arya doesn't need that much satisfaction. “Please take off my smallthings.”  


“And then?”  


_Isn't this enough for you?_ “Touch me,” she pleads.  


“Where?”  


“You know where!”  


“I do, but I want you to tell me anyway.” Sansa realises her sister is a monster. But she's a monster with such talented hands, and she's moved now, gently running her fingers along Sansa's folds through wet fabric. “Would you like me to touch your cunt, Sansa?”  


“Yes.”  


“Beg me. Beg me to touch your cunt. I want to hear you say the word.”  


That tear slips out. “Please, Arya,” she sobs. “Please touch my cunt.”  


It feels filthy on her tongue, and yet the sound of her own voice saying it only makes Sansa run hotter. Arya chuckles. “See, all you had to do was ask nicely.”  


Then Arya's yanking Sansa's smallthings away with both hands, so roughly Sansa's afraid she'll tear them too, and so she lifts her hips so Arya can get them off properly, discarding them by her waist. _Gods_ , Sansa thinks, _what a sight I must look_. Her hair is mussed within an inch of its life. Her nightdress is half torn off. Her breasts are bare, and her nipples red and kiss-bruised. Her skirts are up around her waist, and her – her _cunt_... it's completely exposed, completely subject to her sister's depraved lusts. _And my own._  


At least Arya does as she promised, burying two fingers amongst Sansa's soft red curls, gently laying them at the very top of her and stroking back and forth over the nub there.  


Sansa _screams_.  


“Shh, shh, shh!” Sansa can barely think straight so when Arya pulls back the only thing that comes to mind is _why have you stopped?_ But then she sees the genuine worry in Arya's eyes. “You scream like that, we'll get caught.”  


Sansa coughs, embarrassed. “You're right, sorry. But you know... it is a compliment.” She manages a little smile, and Arya smiles back.  


“I know. Trust me, I would _love_ to hear you scream like that... but some night when there aren't so many people in the castle, alright?”  


Sansa nods, her heart racing. _We are going to do this again. She'll ask me to, and I won't be able to resist._ Arya rewards her obedience, and returns her fingers to where they were, stroking and rubbing faster this time.  


She screams again.  


“Seven hells!”  


Sansa whimpers when Arya's fingers pull away again, and she squirms in place, wet and pathetic. “I can't help it,” she says, barely able to speak and, while not saying so out loud, begging her sister for help. Arya sighs deeply, looking away a moment. Then, seemingly, she spots something – a smirk spreads across her face, and then she grabs something from the bed.  


Arya brings them up to Sansa's face, and her eyes go wide. Her own used smallthings, soft, pink, and wet. “No.”  


“Look, they're the most convenient piece of fabric we have, alright? I can't be bothered looking for something else. Don't when I could be playing with your cunt,” Arya says, her eyes dancing. Sansa doubts her motives are as pure as she claims (as if either of them can claim to have pure anything right now). “Besides, they look good on you. Pink is your colour.”  


Sansa opens her mouth to protest, but when Arya just shoves the underclothes between her lips, she doesn't try to spit them out. Arya's right, there's just no time to look for anything else, not when she needs Arya to touch her _now._ And touch her Arya does, strong and sure and not stopping, letting Sansa just writhe in place, burying her cries in the damp cotton. She realises she doesn't hate the taste – her _own_ taste. It's a little salty, but there's something pleasant about it. She wonders if Arya tastes the same.  


As Arya works her over so well, a thought comes to mind. Sansa finds herself muffling it against her underclothes: “Have you done this before?”  


Arya blinks, pauses, and pulls the makeshift gag away. “What was that?”  


Sansa coughs, a little embarrassed. It might be none of her business.  


“Have you done this before?”  


A pause.  


“Mm.”  


Sansa's eyes go wide, but her smallthings are back in her mouth before she gets to say anything. The thought makes her angry for some reason, Arya's fingers on and maybe in some girl, some peasant's daughter or serving wench or heavens forbid, not a whore, although she can hardly be mad at Arya for disgracing the family name. Not when they are both disgracing the family name so thoroughly.  


_Perhaps I'm not angry,_ she thinks. _Perhaps I'm jealous._  


Then Arya moves, her thumb tracing Sansa's nub as two fingers circle her entrance, and Sansa can't think anything.  


“Oh!” And even smothered in cotton it's loud, Sansa is whining, writhing, bucking and begging, and she knows Arya knows what she wants but she'll never be kind enough to just give it to her. Instead she's going to watch her suffer, and suffer Sansa does, desperately thrusting against Arya's hand to try and invite her in, to try and get those fingers inside her, to–  


“Do you want me to fuck you?”  


Sansa, pure precious Lady Sansa Stark, nods furiously at the thought. “Do you want my fingers inside you?” Arya is enjoying this so much, and Sansa wishes she could hate her for it but– “Do you want your own sister's fingers deep in your precious cunt?”  


“Yes!” Sansa shrieks against her gag. Gods, what is wrong with her, she's lost all self-control but she wants it so much, how has Arya done this to her, it's some sort of spell it must be, but then the smallclothes are being pulled away again and Sansa gasps for breath.  


“Fuck me,” she begs before Arya can get another word out, and she takes the look of surprise on her sister's face as some sort of victory. “Gods Arya, please fuck me, please put your fingers in me, put them right in my cunt, please please please...”  


Arya shoves her fingers deep into Sansa the same second she shoves Sansa's spit-soaked smallthings back between her lips.  


It's a good thing too, because Sansa starts shrieking again the second she has something inside her. She's never even done this with her own fingers (although she's not sure anyone would believe her if she told them that) so there's a twinge of pain at first, but she's so wet the fingers slide in and out easily. She can hear herself _squelching_ , which is disgusting but Arya doesn't seem to mind, she just grins at her sister's obvious desperation. Then she crooks her fingers, rubs against some place in Sansa that has her screaming so loud even the smallclothes might not be enough to hide the noise.  


She doesn't stop though, and before long the screams transform into sobs, as Sansa writhes and begs under Arya's touch. _Why aren't I touching her?_ she wonders and so she does, with desperate hands she reaches up and grabs for Arya's breasts, full and round and marvellous through her nightdress, the one that hasn't been moved at all through all their activities. That's not really fair, but Sansa's hands are fair too shaky to bother with buttons, and unlike _some_ people she has enough self-control to not just tear the damn thing off (if not enough self-control to not fuck her own sister), and so she has to settle for kneading and groping through the fabric. She doesn't really know what she's doing and she's too rough at first, she makes Arya flinch in pain, but then she gentles and Arya gets this look of pleasure on her face, and Sansa's spine tingles when she realises her sister looks _proud._  


“Arya, Arya, Arya,” she starts to chant, muffled by her own used underthings, and it's like a song, like a curse, like a prayer even. That should make her feel guilty, but instead she thinks, with the utter bliss of someone who's completely given in, _Let the seven hells do their worst to me. They can't possibly come up with anything that hurts more than this feels good._  


“Are you about to come, Sansa?” Arya asks her, and Sansa nods because yes she is, she barely even knows what that means but she's sure she's about to find out. Arya lets out a deep groan and Sansa suddenly sees how her thighs are trembling. “Good. Come for me, Sansa. Come with my fingers inside you. Let me feel that perfect cunt squeeze me tight–”  


Sansa screams once more, and then her vision goes white.  


She can't even describe what's happening to her, it's like drowning, but in the sweetest possible way. She doesn't think she's breathing. Her whole body is arched half-off the bed, Arya pulling her like a dog on a leash, and she's so tense around her sister's fingers that it must hurt, but Arya never complains, just keeps pushing in, slow and hard and forcing wave after wave of pleasure over Sansa's body. Sansa's shrieks give way to a long, low moan as she finally softens, finally has every drop of pleasure wrung out of her, and Arya's fingers slide away with a wet _plop_. She's left to gasp for air on the bed, sweat-soaked and mindless, but then she sees Arya sucking her juices off her fingers.  


Arya grins when she sees Sansa's seen. “Sweet,” she says. “Thought you would be.”  


_You've thought about this?_ Sansa wants to ask and before she knows it, she's spat out her gag and tackled Arya to the bed.  


Arya gets a look of fear in her eyes, as if she thinks Sansa will have changed her mind and now want to fight her over what they've done, but no. Mother and Father may never approve of how their daughters have disgraced one another, but Sansa is still a Stark of Winterfell and she has some sense of honour, and while she doesn't really know if she can possibly make Arya feel as good as Arya has made her feel, she thinks it is her duty to try.  


The first thing she thinks is to go for is the breasts. Gods, they are perfect, so firm and round in her hands, with hard little nipples she can feel through soft cotton. Sansa wants to get the dress open, wants to know if they look as good as they feel, but she's too impatient, she wants to see Arya's cunt more. _Some other time_ , she thinks.  


“I'm holding you to that,” Arya says, and Sansa blushes when she realises she said that out loud.  


But she doesn't think about it very long, instead she reaches for Arya's hem and pushes it up to her waist, then gasps when she sees Arya isn't wearing any smallclothes beneath. _Did she plan this?_ she wonders, and finds she doesn't mind. Maybe she even likes the thought.  


Arya's cunt looks better than she could have imagined, dark curls dripping with wetness. _I want to taste her_ , Sansa thinks, and so she does.  


There's a small yelp when she does so, but nothing as embarrassing as Sansa's desperate shrieks. She'll have to fix that. It's not sweet like Arya described, more salty and bitter, but rather nice regardless, and Sansa didn't think she tasted particularly sweet either. She finds Arya's hand is in her hair, petting her like a dog, and she licks like a dog too, eager and messy and loving. Her face is wet, she knows, but she doesn't mind. Arya gives a choked moan when Sansa moves her tongue to burrow it inside her, and then a – well, not a scream exactly, but something close to it – when she pulls back to slide one finger in there instead.  


Arya comes without warning, and Sansa feels a sudden rush of fluid against her face that makes her jump in surprise. She doesn't complain however, just nuzzles deeper and sucks up every drop, letting Arya moan her way through it. She loves the taste.  


Eventually Arya lets out a long shuddering breath that lets Sansa know she's finished. So with surprising reluctance she pulls away, and makes her way back up the bed. She's too exhausted to do anything but just collapse in a heap next to Arya, and when the two sisters look at one another, they break into helpless giggles.  


Sansa doesn't know why they're giggling, really, but it's nice, and the longer they spend giggling, the longer they spend not talking about what in all seven hells just happened. Arya starts to recover first, although she's still hiccupping a little when she starts to speak. “So, from all that screaming, I'm guessing I did well?”  


She wants to roll her eyes at her sister's competitive instinct, but Sansa nods. Arya grins. “Good. You know, I was a little nervous. For my first time.”  


Sansa gapes. “You said–”  


“I didn't say anything, I just went 'mm.'”  


“You let me think–”  


“Yes, and the look on your face was priceless.”  


Sansa glares. “...You just wanted to make me jealous,” she accuses.  


Arya thinks this over a moment, and shrugs. “And I succeeded too.”  


Sansa flushes. She can't really deny that. She's not sure what to say to it, really, so instead she opts not to say anything, rather to lean over to Arya, and kiss her.  


That's the one thing they've not done so far, which is a little silly, but Arya doesn't hesitate for a moment before returning it. It's wet and dirty, tongues sliding against one another, two girls sharing the taste of one another, and themselves. Sansa feels a tingle between her legs that sort of makes her want to put her fingers, or Arya's fingers, or maybe even Arya's mouth there, although she's not sure she has the energy.  


“You taste of cunt,” Arya mumurs as she pulls away with a smack.  


Sansa flushes deeper, her usual inhibitions starting to return, but she can hardly let on – Arya will never let her forget it if she starts blushing at the sound of the word 'cunt' _now_. “You can hardly complain,” she says. “After you stuffed my mouth with dirty smallclothes.”  


Arya raises an eyebrow. “You can hardly complain either, after you clearly loved having your mouth stuffed with dirty smallclothes.”  


Sansa could try and deny that, but she decides against it, instead just kissing Arya again to shut her up. She does it harder this time, biting on Arya's lip as a measure of revenge. It's not very effective revenge however, given how Arya shivers with lust as she does it. But perhaps Sansa likes that better anyway.  


When she pulls away there is something dark and wicked in Arya's eyes – and surprisingly loving. “In suppose I could have done this with some other girl,” Arya mutters, almost hesitant, “but I'm a little old-fashioned. I wanted the first time to be special.” Now it's Arya's turn to blush shyly. “I wanted the first time to be with someone I loved.”  


Sansa stares, shocked, and suddenly struck with a burning curiosity. “...How long have you wanted to do this with me, Arya?”  


“Years. Since I learned this was even something you could do.”  


_Oh._ Sansa blushes again and realises that, yes, she's wanted to do this for years too.  


As she stares into Arya's eyes however, all her doubts and fears start to return. Arya has Father's eyes, and gods, what would he think of them? Not to mention Mother, she's always raised them to be such good young ladies, and never had much success with Arya, but still – and their little brothers, and even their bastard brother Jon, _he's_ meant to be the creature of lust and deviance but Sansa knows he'd never debase himself like this. And what of Robb? Sweet, noble Robb who may or may not be fucking Theon Greyjoy, but even if he is it's not like he and Theon are siblings–  


“Arya,” she says, choking on her words and her thoughts, “do you think we're going to hell?”  


“...Oh Sansa.”  


Arya kisses her this time, but softly, sweetly, nothing more than a chaste press of the lips. It makes Sansa want to sigh, want to swoon, want to marry her own sister. It's everything she always thought a kiss should be. Like that, all those fears and doubts dissolve into nothingness. _Let the seven hells do their worst to me,_ she thinks, again. _They can't possibly come up with anything that hurts more than this feels good._  


When Arya pulls away again, she's grinning, and Sansa grins back.  


“I'm stuck sharing a room with you for two weeks. I'm already in hell.”  


Sansa gives an indignant squawk and thumps her sister on the back. Arya just laughs, eyes blazing with affection, and curls up against her sister's chest to sleep. Despite herself, Sansa can't help but smile.

* * *

“Theon, are you sure you're not hearing that?”  


“For fuck's sake Stark, go to sleep.”  


Robb huffs with irritation. “Someone could be in trouble,” he says.  


Theon snorts. “Hardly. Probably just some kitchen wench getting rough and ready with one of the visiting Karstarks,” he says. Then his eyes pop open, and he smirks. “Who knows? Maybe that precious little sister of yours has finally lost her maidenhead.”  


_Which one?_ Robb wants to ask, but it's not like it matters. “You shouldn't talk about my sisters like that, Theon,” he warns.  


“Why not? What will you do to me?”  


“You know exactly what I'll do to you,” Robb says, and he can't help his voice dropping. “For a man who swallowed three loads of come tonight, you seem to have forgotten what happens when you can't keep that big mouth of yours shut.”  


Theon groans. “Yeah, remind me why I let you do that again? Remind me why I'm not giving you the good hard cock up your arse you need every night until you're snatched away to your wedding bed? Alys Karstark isn't going to fuck you like I do.”  


“...I mean I cannot possibly say you're wrong there.”  


Theon gives a laugh of victory, but then their bickering is interrupted by another groan. “Would you two shut up? I'm trying to sleep.”  


Robb frowns, and leans over to pull back one of the furs, revealing the mess of tangled black curls hidden beneath. “Sorry Jon.”  


“Don't apologise, let me sleep.”  


Theon chuckles as he curls up against Robb's back. “Yeah, he should be sticking his cock up your arse as much as possible too,” he says.  


“In the morning,” Robb promises, closing his eyes even as Theon's cock twitches against his leg, because poor Jon is clearly exhausted. He was the one who came twice down Theon's throat after all.  


Really, Robb's a very lucky man. He never expected Theon to be so willing to let the rumour get out about them, just to deflect attention from Jon, but he seemed fine with it so long as everyone got the impression he was the one sticking it in (which you know, three nights out of four). He never thought Father would actually make him marry over it, but Alys just winked when she saw Theon get a little too close behind him during archery practice. Robb likes her, she's funny, and fiery, and pretty too. He cannot say he's _dreading_ his wedding night, although he hasn't mentioned that to Jon and Theon, so as not to make them jealous (they spend enough time jealous of each other).  


He even gets to keep his two lovers in his bed at night, since Father thought it would be too suspicious to suddenly stop him and Theon sharing rooms, and assumed they couldn't get up to anything with Jon there. Robb loves his father, really he does, but the man is as naïve as Sansa sometimes.  


Still, it's probably for the best. Buggery is hardly an unknown vice among the high lords of Westeros after all, and Robb can probably live that down. But if anyone knew about Jon? Then he'd really be in trouble.  



End file.
